form in its blanket and carry her up those same stairs she‘d been pushed down. He would let no
one else help him; he would carry Mary, alone.
Culpeper gave a disheartened shrug of his shoulders. ―I have set those bones of hers that I
could, and wrapped others. I have given her an infusion which will ease some of her pain when she reawakens. I have applied herbal poultices to her abrasions and open wounds. But, my
lord…she has been so cruelly damaged…she cannot live through this. No one could. The best we
can do for her now is to prepare her as gently for death as we can.‖
― There must be more,‖ Neville said, rising to his feet. About them Mary‘s ladies
murmured and shifted. Margaret stood still, one of her arms about Jocelyn‘s shoulders, hugging
the girl tight into her own body.
―Tom,‖ said a very gentle voice, and Bolingbroke stepped up behind Neville‘s shoulder.
Everyone had been too distracted by Mary to notice his entrance.
Bolingbroke put a hand on Neville‘s shoulder, but stared down at his wife.
His face was expressionless, as that of a man who fights to control his emotions.
―What do you here?‖ Neville said, and several of the ladies gasped at his audacity and the
venom in his tone.
―I cannot attend my own wife‘s death bed?‖ Bolingbroke said, now lifting his eyes to
stare at Neville.
―Mary should have about her only those who love her,‖ Neville said.
―You forget yourself,‖ Bolingbroke snapped.
―Do you think to play the part of the grieving husband?‖ Neville said, jerking his
shoulder out from under Bolingbroke‘s hands. ―Mary‘s ‗accident‘ could not have come at a
better time for you, could it?‖
―Tom!‖ Margaret said. ―Not here. Not now.‖
Neville stared at her, then forced himself to relax. ―I beg forgiveness,‖ he said to no one
in particular, although his eyes shifted to Mary as he spoke. ―This is not the time for ill-spoken
words or angry thoughts. Not when we have the death watch of such a wondrous woman.‖
And, so saying, he sank back to his stool, his eyes still on Mary.
After a moment, Bolingbroke pulled up a stool and sat down beside him.
―I have time to watch,‖ he said, ―before I must to war.‖
X
Wednesday 22nd August 1381
(Night)
Catherine wondered if she should have gone with her brother south to whatever safety he
could find for himself, then, her every thought cynical, decided safety wouldn‘t be worth the
constant company of Charles. So, desolate, she wandered the palace, her feet scuffing the bare
stone flagging, her eyes downcast, the fingers of her hands tracing along walls as if she thought
to find a way out of a maze. There were few people within the palace left to keep her company.
Most servants had left at the same time as Charles, and the majority of the men-at-arms had
taken themselves to the walls, ready to repel any attempt by Bolingbroke to lay siege to the city.
Isabeau was one of Catherine‘s few remaining companions, but her mother‘s company made
Catherine nervous. Whenever they were together, Catherine could feel Isabeau‘s calculating eyes
upon her, and she knew Isabeau expected ( planned) that Bolingbroke would emerge victorious
against Philip. Catherine had no illusions left; Isabeau would use Catherine however she needed
to, so she might assure her own place in the new order.
And so Catherine avoided Isabeau, preferring to leave her mother in solitary
contemplation of her ambitions.
The strange carpenter who had appeared in her doorway telling her to pack Charles‘
crown had not returned, and the few people she‘d asked about him had blinked at her in
confusion.
There was no carpenter in the palace, she was told. Perhaps he had been a vagrant? An
impostor? An English spy?
Well, vagrant or not, he had spoken of her child, and so Catherine had done as he had
asked. She had derived a strange satisfaction from slipping the cloth-wrapped bundle of
be-gemmed monarchy into the cart containing Charles‘ personal belongings. Hal would find the
crown just that little harder to achieve now that he would have to chase around France for it. No
doubt he had thought that Charles would have left it awaiting him in Paris.
Catherine sighed, and settled into a chair by a window overlooking the palace courtyard.
She had little enough to do with her time. An hour ago a servant had brought her some food,
which Catherine had dutifully eaten. Now there were several hours before she could disrobe and
slip under the covers of her bed for the night.
An empty bed. A lonely night.
Catherine almost wept again, but she sniffed, held her breath, and managed to control her
tears. She had cried too much this past day, and she would not cry again.
―Not for any man,‖ she whispered. She would become hard and bitter like her mother.
Manipulate men and thrones before her supper, and entire nations after. She would not love
again. That was too hard, and too dangerous.
Catherine sat before the window, her eyes unfocused as dusk threw long shadows across
the cobbled court below, and did not care at all that soon Thomas Neville would make his choice
between her kind and their angelic fathers.
In fact, she vaguely hoped that Neville would choose whichever path led to assured
destruction, because then it meant that she would not have to think, or to grieve, at all.
Then she would not have to exist in a world where Philip had died, and she was a
prisoner of Hal‘s ambition.
―How could I ever have loved him?‖ she whispered, her eyes still fixed unseeing on the
dim courtyard, her mind now on Hal exclusively. She was quiet a very long time, thinking over
her few meetings with Hal. Mostly they had been when she was very young, ten or eleven, when
Hal had been eighteen or nineteen and as cocksure as any young prince of the blood was (and
even more cocksure than most, knowing he was also the Demon-Prince with a potential world
throne within his grasp). She had gloried in his attention to her, gloried in the secrets that they
shared, believed him when he said that if she waited for him, wed him, then together they would
unite the nations of England and France.
And after that…the world.
Catherine smiled dully. People thought Hal was only after the French throne. They did
not know that his ambitions encompassed even greater glories than England and France
combined.
Well, as a young girl, feeling the first flush of womanhood coursing through her veins,
Catherine had been enthralled with both man and ambition. She would be Hal‘s mate, the keeper
of his dreams, his one love before all others, his partner in the great battle against the angels, his soul.
But then Hal had sidestepped and married Mary Bohun—a small matter of money only,
she‘d been assured—but that had hurt and disillusioned.
And then, in her disillusionment, Catherine had taken Philip as a lover, and
discovered…love.
But to what purpose? Philip would die at the point of Hal‘s ambition. Had she, Catherine,
as good as killed him? Should she not have become his lover only? Not have married him?
Not have conceived his child?
Her hand slid to her belly. A week or so only. No mortal woman would know, but she
did. A son. Philip‘s son. Poor boy, to have lost a father before either had ever held each other…
Catherine‘s entire being suddenly stilled. For a long moment she held her stillness, then
she blinked, refocusing her eyes on the world about her, her lips parting in a gasp of
wonderment.
And then she smiled. Then laughed. And found joy in her heart again. Philip might be
riding to his death, and she would always mourn him, but there was a revenge to be had here, and
Catherine would take it.
Her entire body relaxed, and Catherine realised how tensely she had been holding herself.
For no reason at all she thought of the carpenter again, his deep brown eyes, the quietude he had
projected, and she smiled anew. He had been right, there was no need for her to fret about the
child at all.
And every reason to rejoice.
Her eyes clouded again. Save for the loss of his father, of course.
But then she squared her shoulders, and shook away her doubts. No one had forced Philip
to war; this was as much his decision as Hal‘s. She should not hold herself responsible for
Philip‘s own ambition.
Catherine began to rise from her chair, then froze in the act.
There was movement below in the courtyard. She finished rising then moved closer to the
glass, resting her hands and forehead against its coolness.
A cart, and some three or four men, dressed as pedlars.
She almost smiled. They had come to collect their wares to peddle. Then Catherine did